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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040596">Bargaining</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae'>jessalae</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For You, I Would Ruin Myself [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bargaining - Victim Offers/Sacrifices Self to Protect Others, Begging, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Deepthroating, Dissociation, Doppelganger, Escalation, Gaslighting, Intimacy - Rapist Makes Them Cuddle, Intimacy - Victim Treated Like Lover, M/M, Mentions of Character Death (but it doesn't happen), Orgasm - Victim Orgasms and Is Ashamed, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Recovery, Rope Bondage, Wanted It but Not Like This - Victim(s) Wanted It, it/its pronouns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:29:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040596</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin's made a lot of mistakes in his life, but this is definitely the worst one.</p><p>Or: when a soulless monster loves its host body's heartbroken ex-partner very, very much...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/The Monster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>For You, I Would Ruin Myself [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Nonconathon 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bargaining</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonconamod/gifts">nonconamod</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofgodsandmonsters/gifts">ofgodsandmonsters</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set sometime post 4x05.</p><p>Content Note for use of "it/its" as a personal pronoun; Canon Note that I have not finished watching S4 so the monster-defeating plan in this is not at all connected to whatever happens in canon.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The idea that there are stages of grief, that it's possible to tease apart the constant barrage of pain into anger or depression or denial, is fucking bullshit, Quentin has decided. He was hoping eventually he'd find the stage of numbness, maybe, or detachment. (Acceptance is fucking impossible.)</p><p>But that's just not happening. Not with the Monster riding around in Eliot's body, popping into and out of Quentin's day, pulling him unexpectedly into other worlds and interrupting anything he tries to do and needing attention every moment, me, me, me, me, pay attention to Me, Quentin. There's no detaching from something that can instantly appear wherever you are, whenever it wants, and that wants one hundred percent of your focus, your devotion. And will do literally anything, the more unthinkable the better, to get it.</p><p>Quentin is tired of being dragged from plane to plane with no warning. He's tired of all his clothes being bloodstained. He's tired of searching that familiar face for any sign that Eliot might manage to peek through again -- two seconds would be enough, would dull the pain for just a moment. But it hasn't happened yet, and horrifyingly, when he looks at Eliot's face he's starting to feel like he's looking at the Monster's face instead.</p><p>So he's tired, and he doesn't want to watch this dryad get sliced to pieces in front of him -- the Monster's been really into slices, lately, various innocent bystanders turned to literal ribbons of flesh -- and that's really the only explanation for why he lets himself say it--</p><p>"I have a new game for us to play."</p><p>The Monster turns its (no, Eliot's) head to look at him, quick and birdlike. "I'm not done here yet."</p><p>"We can only play it if you stop," Quentin says in a rush.</p><p>The Monster turns fully to face him. "Why would I stop? I can finish having fun here and then play your game."</p><p>"I won't tell you what it is unless you stop. Let this dryad go."</p><p>"You're bargaining with me," the Monster says, slowly. "You want to make a deal." He steps over to Quentin, looming, stares into his eyes. "Do you care about this dryad?"</p><p>"I just think you'll like my game," Quentin says, "And I don't like when people get killed."</p><p>"You care about so many things you don't even know," the Monster says, still searching Quentin's eyes. "You are fascinating. What is this game?" He gestures, and the dryad is thrown backwards into the forest. Quentin watches it scramble to its feet and sprint away, and then turns back.</p><p>"We should go to the house to play it," he says. "It's not a game we play where other people can see."</p><p>"Even more fascinating," the Monster says, and they're standing in the bedroom in Marina's apartment. "Tell me. Now."</p><p>Quentin swallows, decides to push his luck. "If you like the game, will you play it with me instead of killing people? I'll play it any time you want, if you will."</p><p>"If I like it," the Monster says, voice sharp. "Now tell me."</p><p>Quentin drops to his knees on the carpet. "I'll show you, instead," he says, and reaches for the Monster’s waistband.</p><p>The Monster looks down at him in confusion (with Eliot's eyes, Eliot's frown) as he gets its (Eliot's) cock out, completely soft. "That part is for waste," it says. "It's not interesting."</p><p>"It can be," Quentin says, "If you know what to do with it." He wraps his fingers around the shaft, tugging so gently, hoping against hope that this works and the Monster can feel what he's doing, that something like pleasure will register in that endless void of evil it calls its mind.</p><p>And on a physical level, it's starting to work. Quentin has fifty years of muscle memory to rely on, here, and as the cock in front of him starts to fill and harden, it kicks in easily, finding the rhythm and pace that Eliot likes.</p><p>"Oh," the Monster says, sounding surprised. "I like that. Do that more."</p><p>Hearing those words in Eliot's voice is agony. Quentin obeys. Eliot's cock is fully hard, now, and the worst deja vu in the world hits Quentin like a truck, the experience of being eye level just like this, Eliot giving him murmured instructions from above, telling him to open up, there's a good boy. And he had loved it, then. Had enthusiastically agreed to it, begged to do it again afterwards. Quentin can feel a rush of blood speeding towards his own cock. He grinds his teeth so hard they ache.</p><p>"This game is good," the Monster says. "But how do you know when you're done playing?"</p><p>"I'll show you," Quentin says, hoarsely, and takes Eliot's cock into his mouth.</p><p>This, too, is a familiar feeling, and Quentin's eyes flutter closed instinctively. He sucks hard, unwilling to put more effort into this than he has to. The Monster doesn't deserve the blowjob he'd give Eliot if Eliot were Eliot right now. He's going to do the bare minimum to make this work, make this a game that will maybe save a few people.</p><p>"This is even better," the Monster says, and its impassive voice is starting to sound flustered, its breath coming quicker. "My heart is going fast. It's good."</p><p>Quentin starts to move a little faster, adding one hand along with his mouth, calculating how quickly he can get this over with. Eliot's body hasn't had sex in, what, weeks? It should be over soon. Please. He presses the heel of his hand against his own erection, trying to will it down as it responds to the weight of the cock in his mouth. Unfortunately, the pressure of his hand just feels good. As he focuses on begging his body not to enjoy this incredibly fucked up situation, instinct takes over for a moment and he takes Eliot's cock deeper for a stroke, deep as he can go, before pulling back to suck normally.</p><p>"No. Do the other thing again. What you just did," the Monster says sharply.</p><p>Quentin sits back. "What?" he says, stroking with his hand again. "This?"</p><p>"No. Put it in your mouth and go far." When Quentin hesitates, the Monster reaches down and grabs his hair, hard. Quentin makes a strangled noise -- not a moan, definitely not -- and the Monster takes the opportunity to stick its cock in again. Quentin quickly reshapes his lips to cover his teeth as it pushes in roughly.</p><p>"<em>Far</em>," the Monster insists, and shoves its cock into the back of Quentin's throat. Quentin chokes, not ready, and gags. The Monster makes an interested noise, draws out just a little, shoves back in right as Quentin is trying to take a breath. He gags again.</p><p>"This is a better way to play this game," it says, and tightens its grip on Quentin's hair, dragging Quentin's mouth onto its cock.</p><p>Quentin’s eyes fill with tears, a physical reaction to having his gag reflex triggered. He grabs at the Monster's legs, trying to keep his balance as it pulls him back and forth, cock hitting the back of his throat over and over. Eliot's body is many things, but one thing it is not is <em>small</em>, in any way -- Quentin has tried this deep throating thing before, ended up hoarse for days. Eliot wouldn't let him keep trying, actually, insisting on other ways of having sex that didn't have as many lasting effects.</p><p>The Monster currently driving Eliot's body has no such compunctions. It's keeping Quentin's face pulled nearly all the way to its groin, pushing him back just an inch or so each time before it pulls him forward again. His mouth is stretched so full, his jaw already getting sore. Quentin manages to get a breath in, finally, through tears, and focuses all his energy on getting that next breath, then the next one. </p><p>And as he gets into the rhythm of it, his eyes close again, and it feels-- good? No, it can’t, that’s insane -- he realizes he’s palming his erection through his jeans, rocking with the rhythm of the Monster’s strokes, and grabs his thigh instead, fingers digging hard into his leg.</p><p>In the smallest of mercies, Quentin's prediction about not this not lasting too long proves true. "Something is happening," the Monster says, breathing hard, and then it comes, holding Quentin's head in place so his nose is pressed up against its belly.</p><p>When it comes, the moan it makes sounds just like Eliot.</p><p>It releases Quentin's hair, and he falls to all fours, gasping, saliva and come dripping from his mouth. His jaw aches. He doesn't want to look up. He curls over himself protectively, hoping the Monster can’t see that he's still half-hard.</p><p>"That was a good game," the Monster says, its breathing still a little rough. "Did you have fun?"</p><p>"Our deal," Quentin says hoarsely. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can we play the game instead of killing people?"</p><p>"Unless the people have what I need," the Monster says. "If I just want to kill them for fun, we can play this game instead. It's still messy, though. Am I supposed to wash this stuff off this body too, like I'm supposed to wash off blood?"</p><p>"Yeah," Quentin says, still staring at the floor. He can't look up and see Eliot's face looking down at him, neutrally curious and totally not caring about the fact that Quentin nearly suffocated on his cock thirty seconds ago, that his head still stings from the too-tight grip in his hair.</p><p>He waits until the Monster has walked away and he hears the water running in the bathroom before he sits up, taking deep breaths and mentally begging his cock to calm down, don’t make this a thing. Finally, with lots of careful breathing and pinching the web of skin between his thumb and index finger to distract himself, things begin to recede, and he breathes a sigh of relief.</p><p>"This body is tired," the Monster says, returning to the bedroom with its pants zipped up again. "Is that part of the game?"</p><p>Quentin sighs. "That's normal," he says.</p><p>"Come rest with me," the Monster orders.</p><p>Quentin braces himself and meets its eyes (Eliot's eyes), unprepared for the rush of grief at that familiar face not smiling, not concerned, just matter-of-factly pointing to the bed. He stands, trying not to shake too obviously, and gets into bed, lying still on his back under the covers, staring at the ceiling. The Monster slides in beside him, mimicking his position for a moment, then rolls towards him, throwing one arm across Quentin's waist and a leg over his thighs.</p><p>"This is the right way to do this," the Monster says, a little sleepy but with absolutely no room for argument.</p><p>Quentin listens to its breathing slow and soften, eyes glued to the ceiling, feeling sick to his stomach. Eventually he closes his eyes, but he doesn't sleep.</p><p>--</p><p>"Quentin. I want to kill someone," the Monster says, appearing just behind Quentin.</p><p>Quentin sighs and closes the book he's been reading. He's been dreading this moment for two days now. Honestly, he expected it would come sooner. Time to make good on his deal.</p><p>"Let's play the game instead," he says, trying to sound happy about it, or at least neutral.</p><p>"Good idea," the Monster says, and touches his arm, and they're in the bedroom.</p><p>"We were right down the hall," Quentin points out. "We could have walked here."</p><p>"Time to play the game," the Monster says, ignoring him, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him to his knees with terrifying strength.</p><p>As soon as Quentin gets his hands on the Monster's -- Eliot's -- cock, his body recoils, remembering last time, being starved of air, tears in his eyes. His throat twinges and his jaw locks, and his hands try to tighten into fists. This has the unfortunate effect of making the Monster make a pleased noise, as he squeezes its cock. It grabs his hair, too tight again.</p><p>"Wait," Quentin blurts out.</p><p>"I want to play <em>this</em> game," the Monster says firmly.</p><p>"I know, I-- I want to too," Quentin says, hating every word of it. "But last time it wasn't-- it was hard for me. I can show you-- we can make it easier for me to do, and just as much fun for you."</p><p>"All right."</p><p>"You have to let go of my hair, though." Quentin sighs with relief when the Monster, amazingly, complies. "Keep your hands on your hips, or off to the side. I'll do the moving."</p><p>He leans in, forces himself to open his mouth, and slides it over Eliot's dick, tongue massaging the underside. He liked doing this, once (who is he kidding, he <em>loved</em> doing this), and he still remembers all the tricks, the places he can tease and suck and just use the <em>tiniest</em> bit of teeth. He reaches up to stroke Eliot's balls, thumb rubbing small circles over the hot skin, exactly the way Eliot liked it. Would like it, maybe, present tense.
</p><p>Once again, his memories are spot on. The Monster groans, and again it sounds disturbingly like Eliot, a sound that still sends delicious shivers down Quentin's spine. He was determined not to get hard this time, but doing it like this, pulling out all the stops like this is something he really wants, is making his body is betray him even more quickly than last time. He angles himself so hopefully the Monster won’t see.</p><p>He can't make himself go deep, his still-sore throat the one obstacle his body puts in his way that he can't push past, so he goes for suction and motion and focusing on the things he knows would get Eliot there fast. It had been a point of pride, early on, when Eliot would have to drag Quentin's mouth off him, face flushed and hands shaking, tell him to stop now if he wants to get fucked. (He had, always, and his breath hitches a bit at the memory.) It had been a useful skill, when they had a curious eight-year-old in the house who could only be relied on to play by himself for about fifteen minutes at a time. Now it's saving him from a sore scalp and a bruised throat, and saving someone out there from a painful and pointless death.</p><p>The Monster moans again, and its hips stutter forward, nearly choking Quentin, but thankfully he's able to pull back a bit. He cradles its balls with shaking fingers, using his other hand to stroke hard at the base of the shaft, and the one-two-three combination of hands and mouth does the trick like it always has as his mouth fills with come.</p><p>There's a strange half-moment where something inside Quentin puts its foot down and refuses to swallow. The idea of having this thing's come inside him, sliding down his throat hot and bitter -- but he reminds himself that the body is Eliot's, the come is Eliot's, and shouldn't he be thankful that there's this much of Eliot left that he gets to have? He swallows.</p><p>"Less messy this time," the Monster says. "You like it when things aren’t messy. This is a good game." </p><p>Suddenly it grabs Quentin's shoulder and pulls him to his feet. Quentin tries to resist, but the Monster is already eyeing where his erection is pressing against the front of his jeans.</p><p>"Does your body like to play this game too?" it asks. </p><p>Quentin stays silent, feeling his face heat and turn red, staring at the floor. The Monster puts a finger under his chin and tips his head up, inexorably, stares into his eyes.</p><p>“Don’t you want to play with me?” It tilts its head to the side, narrows Eliot’s eyes. “You don’t play this with someone else, do you?”</p><p>"No," Quentin says, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. "Only you. Nobody else. This is just our game, it-- it wouldn't work for other people." God, it would be just his fucking luck if he managed to convert a vicious murderer into a serial rapist (and still also vicious murderer).</p><p>"Let’s play, then," the Monster says. "It’s my turn. I want you to have fun."</p><p>"No," Quentin says, "We don't need to-- I don't--" but the Monster is already unbuttoning his jeans, pushing him back towards the bed until he falls onto it and looming over him, curious face near his groin. The air-conditioned apartment air hits his cock, still half-hard, and a cold, sick shiver runs through his body.</p><p>The Monster wraps Eliot's fingers around Quentin's cock and tugs, way too hard. "Ow," Quentin says, "Careful--"</p><p>"Fragile human bodies," the Monster murmurs, and changes its grip.</p><p>Quentin is frozen, unable to speak, his eyes unable to focus. If he closes them, he can pretend this isn't happening. If he closes them, he might accidentally pretend that it's Eliot doing this. It certainly feels like Eliot, long fingers and the perfect angle and twist at the end as the Monster lets the body it's occupying guide its motions. He hates this. He <em>hates</em> it. He can't stop his cock from swelling in Eliot's (the Monster's) grip. He doesn't have to give in to enjoying it.</p><p>"Yours is smaller than mine," the Monster muses, apparently determined to add insult to injury. "I think this mouth could go far on it." And it lowers its head, and swallows Quentin's cock.</p><p>Quentin grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches in a whole different way, because it feels <em>amazing</em>, and he can't fucking stand it. He hasn't exactly been in a mood to jack off, lately, so he's sensitive, and the Monster was unfortunately right, it (Eliot) can take him in nice and deep without any apparent trouble. He looks forward involuntarily, and the sight of Eliot's mouth on him, Eliot's eyes staring into his, hits him like a slap in the face. Fuck, he wants that so badly, the real version -- not this -- not a fucked-up game with a thing that holds his, Eliot's, everyone's lives in the balance. But it <em>feels</em> like the real thing, is the worst part, feels like the ends of Eliot's hair brushing his bare thighs, Eliot's nose pressed into his stomach when he hits bottom, Eliot making a curious noise that makes the back of his throat vibrate and sends lightning up Quentin's spine. </p><p>The desperate desire for this to be over is at war with the equally desperate desire to not give in, not let the Monster have this from him, not let it know that the body it's in can make Quentin fall apart at the seams apparently no matter how much he wants to scream No at it. A dull, rational part of Quentin's brain points out that it's going to happen eventually, the Monster won't stop until he comes, and fighting will only prolong it. Quentin closes his eyes tight and wishes he knew how to astral project, as the Monster runs Eliot's tongue up the length of his cock, then swallows him again. He tries to tuck himself back into the tiniest back corner of his mind, pretend the pleasure he's feeling comes from something else, not this-- <em>thing</em>, and manages to hold onto that for just long enough that he spasms and comes. He bites his tongue as he does, hard, and manages not to make a sound.</p><p>The Monster stands, tips its head to one side, uses a hand to stretch its neck. "This body is too tall to play the game that way," it says. "We'll have to find a different way next time."</p><p>"Sure," Quentin makes himself say, and tries to push himself up onto his feet. His legs are shaking, maybe from the orgasm, maybe from the bone-deep loathing and rage that has replaced every molecule of endorphins his body is trying to generate. He manages to struggle further onto the bed, at least, and collapse with his head on the pillows.</p><p>The Monster crawls into bed alongside him, curling around him like it did last time. "I like this game," it says. "I like that we can both play." It nestles its head on Quentin's shoulder. "I like that it's just for us."</p><p>Quentin holds back an anguished scream, and says, "Good."</p><p>--</p><p>Quentin's made a lot of mistakes in his life, but this is definitely the worst one, because the Monster is enamored with Our Game to the point of obsession. He should have seen this coming -- it's in Eliot's body, which is more than capable of going two rounds in a night and again after breakfast. Combine that with a mind that is purely focused on getting whatever it wants, whenever it wants it, with absolutely no boundaries or limits. Then teach it that sex with Quentin can be a thing it wants, and you get, well. A predictable result.</p><p>And after the first few times, the Monster gets curious. Not only does it keep giving him excellent blowjobs -- <em>Eliot</em> gives him excellent blowjobs, Quentin tries to remind himself, this thing is just piggybacking off what Eliot's body already knows how to do -- but it figures out that touching Quentin's balls will make him "ready for Our Game" (its preferred term) even quicker. Then it figures out that there are other places on Quentin's body it can touch, his nipples and the curve of his ass and the back of his neck, and have a similar effect. It starts grabbing his hair again, but not as hard, just with the firm, steady grip that, if Eliot were doing it, would make Quentin whimper and do literally anything Eliot told him to do with reckless enthusiasm.</p><p>He always does literally anything the Monster tells him to do, of course, but that's because he would like to survive this nightmare. Not much to do with enthusiasm.</p><p>One time, weirdly early in the morning for them (Quentin had just stepped out of the shower before the Monster appeared, and now he's going to have to shower all over again), the Monster is taking its turn at Our Game, sucking Quentin's cock. Quentin is trying to get to that back corner of his brain that will let him just come, already, move on with the day, and it's not working. He lets his eyes flutter open, frustrated, and sees the Monster looking at him with a mouthful of dick, frozen in place, its expression calculating.</p><p>"What?" he asks.</p><p>The Monster sits up, sitting back on its haunches on the bed. It's discovered that cleanup from Our Game is easier with no clothes, so they're both fully naked, and somehow seeing Eliot's body without that stupid graphic tee is even worse, because there's less visual evidence to stifle the little part of Quentin's heart that wants to scream "El!" and fall into his arms. Its arms. "When it's your turn at Our Game, my body makes noises with its voice," it says. "I don't know why I'm making them, but they feel good. It's like this body's way of saying it likes the game." It cocks its head to the side. "Why don't you make noises? Do you not like Our Game?"</p><p>"Of course I like it," Quentin says hollowly. "My body is just different from-- that one."</p><p>Which is not a lie, technically, because they <em>are</em> different. Quentin was always the more vocal one. Eliot could be loud when he wanted, but he was naturally more reserved in bed, and he had taken great pleasure in staying relatively composed while he made Quentin scream.</p><p>"Our Game would be more fun if you made noises," the Monster says. Its gaze drifts off to the side, and it lazily runs a hand down Quentin's thigh. "It's starting to get boring."</p><p>Quentin would love nothing more than to let the game get boring and move on to something else, anything else. Pulling his fingernails out one by one? Pouring hot sauce directly into his eyeballs? All better options. But that wasn't what the Monster would want to do. It would want to go back to killing people, and that wasn't an option. "I can do that," Quentin says, aiming for a light, casual tone of voice. He hates how well he succeeds at it.</p><p>The Monster looks back at him immediately, obviously pleased that its extremely transparent ploy has worked. It strokes its hand back up Quentin's thigh again, nails gently scraping the sensitive skin. "Mm," Quentin says. It sounds fairly convincing.</p><p>The Monster ducks back down and takes Quentin's cock in its mouth again, and Quentin makes himself gasp, head falling back. He stares at the ceiling, timing his noises with the slide of the Monster's tongue over the length of him, the firm suction on the head of his cock, the movement of long fingers over his balls and further back, pressing against the spot just behind that the Monster discovered yesterday. The noise Quentin makes is a little too real when that happens, coming from deep in his chest -- he loves being teased, and Eliot would always start here, putting steady pressure, rubbing in little circles, before he would move further back and--</p><p>Quentin lets out a strangled yelp, arousal shivering across his skin, pain and anguish blossoming in his chest and more acutely in his ass as the Monster pushes a finger into him, totally dry. The Monster tips its head to the side again, looking at Quentin appraisingly. "There's an opening here," it says. "This body knew about it." It pushes in a fraction of an inch further, and Quentin winces. "This body likes it," the Monster adds. "I like it."</p><p>"I don't," Quentin says between gritted teeth. "It hurts."</p><p>The Monster pulls its finger out, circles it gently around Quentin's asshole. Quentin's cock twitches. "Can we make it not hurt?" it asks.</p><p>Quentin closes his eyes, but he knows he only has a moment to decide. Honestly, there's a reasonable chance that whatever he says, the Monster is going to fuck him-- use Eliot's body to fuck him. And Eliot's cock is, again, not small. There are real health and injury risks here.</p><p>And, as a fingertip continues to circle his asshole, and another hand moves up to stroke his cock, slowly, firmly, Quentin shudders and moans.</p><p>"Lube," he says, his heart pounding. "I don't know if we have any here-- you know what, I can just--" He swallows hard and moves his fingers through the familiar pattern of the spell, lets the resulting lubricant fill his cupped palm, spilling a bit onto his belly.</p><p>He holds his hand towards the Monster. "If you put this on your fingers, it won't hurt."</p><p>"Fingers? Plural?" the Monster asks, reaching out to touch the lube, examining it in front of his face.</p><p>"Start with one," Quentin says, heart sinking. He could have avoided this, if he hadn't been so stupid -- drawn out the process longer, let the Monster make discoveries on its own, without his help. Maybe avoided getting fucked until, who knows, the day after tomorrow. "Then you can add more, and then--" He cuts himself off, his eyes flashing to the Monster's -- <em>Eliot's</em>, damn it -- cock, half-full and heavy.</p><p>"Now <em>that</em> sounds like fun," the Monster says, catching on immediately. Because of course.</p><p>Quentin somehow manages to smile, kind of, feeling like that's probably what needs to happen to keep this game going. The Monster uses Eliot's face to smile back.</p><p>And it moves <em>fast,</em> as always, pushing Quentin's legs so his knees bend and spread and holding down the backs of his thighs to keep him in position. The lube sloshes out of Quentin's hand across his stomach, and the Monster drags a hand across the puddle, coating its fingers. It presses one in up past the second knuckle, far before Quentin's ready, and he yelps a bit and bucks against the Monster's grip.</p><p>"That was a good noise," the Monster says, and starts to finger Quentin roughly.</p><p>Technically in this timeline, the last time he had something up his ass was more than a year ago, and his body knows it -- it clamps down on the invading finger, muscles seizing up. The Monster makes a considering noise and adds more lube, then goes right back in. Quentin forces himself to relax as much as he can, but it's too fast, he's starting to panic. He screws his eyes shut and distracts himself the only way he can think of, grabbing his own cock and stroking it.</p><p>His body relaxes by degrees as he works himself, and gradually the pain in his ass is replaced with normal pressure -- which immediately doubles, then triples a moment later, as the Monster apparently decides to go right for three fingers. "Fuck," Quentin bites out. The Monster's iron grip on his thighs holds him still.</p><p>"That was a good noise too," the Monster says. Quentin risks a look at it; its eyes (Eliot's eyes) are dark and hungry, its skin (Eliot's) flushed all the way down its (his) chest. "Make more lube, please," it says, and shifts positions, still holding Quentin in place.</p><p>"Fuck," Quentin breathes again. He repeats the spell with shaking fingers, and the Monster scoops the lube out of his hand, spreads it over its cock (Eliot's cock, Eliot's thick fucking cock) with a pleased hiss.</p><p>Quentin can't say anything, when it slides into him. It growls its way past his body's resistance, not knowing or caring how underprepared he is, and settles deep, deep into him. "This is as good as going far into your mouth," it observes, panting a little. "How do I get you to move, though? The moving is the best part."</p><p>"You have to move," Quentin says. He uses his free hand to grab the Monster's hip, push away and then pull back in. He's not really trying to make it happen, just to demonstrate the direction, but the Monster follows along perfectly, and Quentin yells, hand tightening on his cock.</p><p>"Yes," the Monster says, harsh and excited. It tests out a few strokes, seeing how far it can slide back without pulling fully out, and then settles into a punishing rhythm.</p><p>Quentin feels like the wind's been knocked out of him, he's so full, he's so shattered. His cock is rock hard under his fingers. It would be so easy, easier than anything, to close his eyes, forget that this is a living nightmare, relish the stretch of Eliot's cock in his ass and the soft sound of breathing above him.</p><p>So he does. What's even the point in resisting, anymore? He throws his head back and writhes under the Monster's unnaturally strong grip, pushes up into him like the bratty bottom he used to love to be, in another lifetime, wanting as much as Eliot could give him and more, more, always more. He can feel tears trickling down his cheek, cool against the heat of his skin. Good tears? Bad tears? Who can even tell. He can't control how loud he's moaning now, rocking onto the thick cock inside him and hand a blur on his own. He's close, and he can't decide if he'd rather go first or wait for Eliot -- the Monster -- to finish, and then the Monster reaches forward and grabs his free hand, holds it tight, fingers twined together, and they come at nearly the same time.</p><p>The Monster collapses over him, and Quentin brings his hands up instinctively to stroke Eliot's hair and tip his face for a soft kiss. The moment he does it, he regrets it more sharply than anything he's ever regretted in his life.</p><p>The Monster rolls off him, then twists to curl around him as usual, head on Quentin's shoulder, gathering Quentin against it with its long arms. "I liked that very much," it says, still panting a little. "You made good noises. I'm so glad you like Our Game, I want you to like it more and more every time." It moves one hand to the side of Quentin's face, turns his head, kisses him gently. Quentin wants so, so badly to melt into the kiss.</p><p>As the Monster drifts off to sleep beside him, more tears pour down Quentin's cheeks. He tilts his head to keep them from waking the Monster.</p><p>--</p><p>There's a strange war happening inside Quentin's soul, now -- a war between disgust and pragmatism, maybe. Or between resistance and defeat. It rarely seems worth it to deny the Monster anything, when they play Our Game. Quentin's already given it his pleasure, his body, his kisses. Why try and hold anything back? If he just gives in, the Monster will keep wanting to play, and will hold up its end of the bargain. It's only killed five people since they started, all but one of whom held some part of the puzzle -- and every time they fuck, he's buying precious time for his friends to research undisturbed. That has to be a good thing. Right?</p><p>The game escalates. The Monster gets tired of fucking Quentin missionary-style, puts Quentin on top and holds him by the hips so hard to move him up and down that Quentin has finger-shaped bruises for days. It learns the lube spell itself, and Quentin wakes up in the middle of the night with two fingers in his ass and a lubed-up hand on his cock, when he'd been alone in bed when he went to sleep. It accidentally grabs Quentin by the throat, once, as it pulls him up from a blowjob, and it immediately picks up on the way his cock hardens and his face flushes, and then it learns Eliot's body is tall enough to fuck Quentin from behind with a forearm looped around his throat, choking off his air supply, so that's what they do every time for a solid week.</p><p>Quentin cries, often, after sex. It doesn't seem to realize that's not normal.</p><p>He can't tell Julia. He can't tell anyone. How to explain that he looked at this awful thing, wearing the face of someone he actually loves, and decided it would be just fine if they fucked. How to then explain that while it started out pragmatic, a noble sacrifice, the awful thing has figured out how to fuck Quentin so good he actually <em>wants it</em>.</p><p>The Monster breaks him, truly breaks him, the day he wakes up from a nap tied up, smooth cotton rope in intricate knots binding his wrists to his ankles and wrapping around his torso in a symmetrical design. The Monster is just finishing the last set of knots, weaving them from a distance with invisible magic as it looks down at a book open on the bed. It started doing its own research a week or so ago -- apparently adding new elements to the game is fun enough to override the boredom of reading. "I think you'll really like this way to play the game," it says.</p><p>Quentin shifts, testing the bonds. Fuck, he does really like being tied up. He's not sure how it knew, or if this was a lucky guess. <em>Another</em> lucky guess. "I think so too," he says. "Do you like it?"</p><p>The Monster looks at him, considering. "So far, very much. You look very pretty like this."</p><p>Quentin feels himself blushing, hates himself for it. "What are you going to do to me?"</p><p>A long silence, as the Monster's eyes rake over his body. Then it says, "I don't think I'm going to tell you," and sends a strip of fabric looping itself around Quentin's eyes with a wave of its hand.</p><p>Quentin groans, already getting hard. He tries to stay detached, sometimes, still, to tell himself he's only coming because the game requires it, not because he likes it. But blindfolds and being tied up send him right into what Eliot called subspace, hard and fast, and he <em>loves</em> it. He pushes against his bonds again, not really wanting them to break, just wanting to feel the resistance when they don't.</p><p>His first warning is the bed shifting under him, unevenly like someone is walking, and then there's something warm and hard brushing his cheek. He turns toward it naturally, mouth opening, tongue out, and can't help but make a happy noise when he finds a cock in his mouth.</p><p>"That's it," the Monster croons in Eliot's voice, as Quentin feels fingers thread into his hair and get a firm grip. "Take it in, be a good boy."</p><p>The words 'good boy' rattle around in Quentin's head like he's a pinball machine, lighting up all sorts of feelings and wants and needs. He sucks hard on the cock in his mouth, wanting to be good, do a good job. The cock nudges the back of his throat, and he focuses on loosening his jaw, making space for it to fuck his face, breathing even and slow with the rhythm of it.</p><p>"You do like this," the voice above him says, a note of wonder in it. "Yes? Nod if you do." Quentin nods, careful with the cock in his mouth. "Why didn't you teach me this part of the game first?" The cock withdraws from his mouth, and Quentin whines in disappointment. "Answer."</p><p>Quentin licks his lips, trying to pull his brain into a usable state. "Not everyone likes it like this," he says. "You don’t-- I wouldn’t just, tell someone the first time that I wanted them to tie me up. It’s-- some people would think it’s weird."</p><p>"You were... ashamed?" the voice says. The bed shifts again, and Quentin feels hands on his knees, smoothing over his skin down the backs of his thighs, over the curve of his ass. "Is that the right word?”</p><p>Quentin squirms in place, trying to get closer to that hand. “Yeah,” he says, breathlessly.</p><p>“Hm,” the Monster says thoughtfully. “And now you’re not.” It presses a lubed finger to Quentin’s asshole, and Quentin makes a pained, wanting noise.</p><p>“I would never think you’re weird,” the Monster says. “You understand me better than anyone. And I understand you.” It pushes its finger in, slowly. Quentin pants, his head falling back. “I need to know what you like, Quentin,” it continues. “Otherwise, how can we play?”</p><p>“I’ll tell you,” Quentin hears himself saying, breathless. “I’ll tell you anything, just, <em>please</em>.”</p><p>“Please what?”</p><p>“Fuck me.” Quentin feels like something is breaking -- his voice? His heart? He doesn’t really care, as long as the finger inside him will <em>move</em>.</p><p>“Good boy,” the Monster says, and moves its hand, and Quentin slips down, down, and is gone.</p><p>--</p><p>For the past four days, the goal of the game has been to make Quentin last as long as possible, and today the Monster has truly outdone itself. Quentin feels like he’s going to pull a muscle squirming against his bonds, made of invisible tendrils of magic, as the Monster just barely, barely strokes his cock. He’s fully sobbing, ears ringing and vision whiting out on the edges. The Monster slips one finger into him, lets go of his cock, just fingers him slowly. Quentin's asshole is tender and stretched and wet from getting thoroughly fucked earlier -- how much earlier? absolutely no idea, time is meaningless -- and the word "please" is losing all definition, he's said it so many times. He tries to clamp down on the finger inside him to get enough purchase so the sensation will do <em>something</em> besides tease him mercilessly.</p><p>The Monster pulls its finger out. "Be a good boy, Quentin," it says calmly, although its cock is hard -- again -- and it's practically licking its lips looking down at Quentin's asshole.</p><p>"Please," Quentin keeps saying, his voice dropping to a whisper at this point. "Please please please please pleaseplease--"</p><p>The Monster doesn't understand what mercy is, so you can't really say it shows mercy, but it finally grabs his cock, hard, and Quentin comes with a scream.</p><p>He returns to the world of the living a few heartbeats later, fully expecting to be unceremoniously flipped onto his front and fucked until he soaks through the pillowcase with overstimulated tears, like yesterday. For some reason, though, the Monster hasn't made a move towards that. It's still sitting on its knees, staring at him.</p><p>And then it tips sideways, just for a second. The cords of magic keeping Quentin tied in place disappear.</p><p>And its face changes.</p><p>"No," Quentin breathes. "No no nono nonono nonononono--" the word becomes silence as he curls into a ball, every muscle in his body shaking, feeling like his spine's been ripped out through his chest.</p><p>"Q?" Eliot says, confused. "What the fuck-- what the <em>fuck</em>, Q, Jesus fucking Christ--"</p><p>"I can't," Quentin sobs into his knees, "I can't stop, I have to, I can't, I can't."</p><p>Long hands on his shoulders, running down his arms, skipping lightly over bruises, bite marks. He can feel the silence change and knows Eliot must be looking at the wet spot under him, at the come splattered halfway across the bed, at his own cock, probably still mostly hard.</p><p>"Oh my fucking god, Quentin," Eliot whispers, sounding as horrified as Quentin knows he should feel about all this. "How long has it been doing this to you?"</p><p>Quentin shudders and wants to lift his head, can't bear to lift it all the way to meet Eliot's (actually Eliot's) eyes. "A while," he says, muffled. "It was-- it was my stupid idea first, I just wanted it to stop killing people for one fucking second-- I made a deal."</p><p>The silence stretches another horrifying moment, then Eliot touches Quentin's shoulder, so gently, like he's afraid he's going to shatter. Quentin thinks that's probably a pretty realistic fear. "Quentin," he says quietly, firmly. His voice has more softness in it than the Monster knows how to convey, and Quentin manages to look up, finally. His face crumples as he sees Eliot, really Eliot, with tears flowing in rivers, looking at him with more tenderness than he has ever deserved in his life, and certainly more than he deserves now.</p><p>"Quentin," Eliot says again, and holds Quentin by both shoulders, now. "You-- unbelievably brave boy. You can't keep doing this." He takes a shuddering breath. "Kill me."</p><p>"What?" Quentin truly doesn't process the meaning behind the words.</p><p>"You should kill me," Eliot repeats. "This, I can't do this. Figure out how to kill the thing, or don't, put it in another body, but don't--" his fingers brush a hand-shaped bruise on Quentin's thigh, light as a feather. "I cannot do this to you, I can't, you have to let me go. You have to. My body did this? My hands--" he cups the back of Quentin's neck, sees a bruise there too that wraps around his throat, sobs-- "My-- Please, Quentin, I love you, please don't keep doing this."</p><p>"I love you, Eliot," Quentin says. "I love you so fucking much--"</p><p>"So stop this," Eliot interrupts, then shivers. "I can't stay, it's coming back, but please. Please. I love you, Q," he says again and he's gone.</p><p>The Monster blinks at Quentin, who is dissolved in tears, on his side in the fetal position, sobbing so hard he's gone all the way through loud and come back around to silent. "What happened?" it asks. "Did we finish?" Quentin can't respond. The Monster looks down -- somehow, thankfully, Eliot's horror made him -- it -- lose its erection. "Looks like we did."</p><p>It pulls Quentin to the other half of the bed, away from the various wet spots of come and lube and tears, and wraps its body around him big-spoon style, nuzzling the back of his neck. "We'll play again tomorrow," it says.</p><p>--</p><p>Quentin is a zombie. Quentin Coldwater is no more, he has no life in him. He works on autopilot, trying to help the rest of the crew find the right spell to end this. When the Monster comes and teleports him away, he goes silently. He saves his noises for Our Game.</p><p>They all know, they have to. Julia especially. She knows, she-- she knows.</p><p>They don't say anything. They seem to sense that they can't talk him out of it.</p><p>(If Eliot, actually Eliot, couldn't, nobody can.)</p><p>Quentin gives blowjobs, gets blowjobs, gets fucked, gets tied up. Every time, he wants to hate it. Every time, the Monster takes him apart until he's shaking, begging. All it takes to get him hard is a particular tone in the Monster's voice, a firm grip on the back on his neck, a couple of whispered words -- his body is so ready, all the time, so ready to fall into the only pleasure he seems to be able to feel anymore. </p><p>The Monster is an all-powerful demon that can bamf itself into any library it wants, and its research is getting more and more esoteric. It comes at Quentin with positions he's barely heard of, it leaves bruises and burn marks all over his skin, it works his prostate to make him come four times in a row until he's screaming in pain, not pleasure, and only stops because he passes out and can't suck its cock. Quentin's started liking things he never thought he would, that Eliot would never have asked him to even try, that he's pretty sure Eliot wouldn't actually like. The Monster likes them, and the Monster can make Quentin like anything. It's part of Our Game. We wouldn't want Our Game to stop being fun, right? </p><p>And then on the flip side, it spoons him every night in bed; it learns to braid his hair, stroking its fingers gently over his scalp. It lowers him carefully into the bath after a hard session, and actually <em>sings</em> to him -- a song in some language he doesn't recognize, but calming enough to lull him to sleep.</p><p>Quentin hydrates and eats right and makes sure he has energy for whatever new idea it has, because it's only killed two people in the past two weeks, and Eliot is still in there, and he can't stop now.</p><p>He has managed to convince himself in equal measure that this is almost over, and that he is never going to escape. The first idea gets him through each day. The second comforts him when, once again, his friends have no breakthroughs to report.</p><p>So it's jarring when, suddenly, Julia pulls him into a corner and tells him she's found it, she has a way to trap the Monster again. To put it in some other container and get rid of it for good.</p><p>"How," Quentin breathes, not willing to believe her.</p><p>"There's a spell from the second century -- the background isn't important, really. We have almost everything we need, Penny should be back with the last ingredient tonight. The only thing is, Q--" she hesitates.</p><p>The bottom drops out of Quentin's stomach. "The spell's going to kill Eliot."</p><p>"No, it shouldn't," Julia says hurriedly. "But the Monster needs to-- kill something. Someone. To trigger the spell." She takes a deep breath. "I need to make sure you're okay with letting that happen."</p><p>He can't be. He shouldn't be. After months-- giving up everything he is, to prevent exactly this. But the tiniest glimmer of hope has sparked in his chest. He beats it down fiercely before he bursts into tears. "Anyone specific?" he asks, not quite believing he's saying it.</p><p>"Just anyone," Julia says. "One person. To end this. It kills them, and then we activate the spell, and we're done. <em>You're</em> done." She reaches out to grab his hand, but Quentin jerks it back.</p><p>"Sorry," he mumbles at her confused face. "Can't-- I don't want to touch. Anyone." <em>Anyone else. I can't. Touching is for Our Game.</em></p><p>She nods immediately. "I get it. The next time you see Penny, know that we're ready. We'll be waiting for our moment."</p><p>Quentin feels lightheaded. "Yeah," he says. "Thank you for telling me."</p><p>And so that's how, a couple days later, the Monster comes to Quentin saying it's time to play, and Quentin says, for the first time, "No."</p><p>The Monster is just confused, initially. "No?"</p><p>"I don't want to play the game," Quentin says, trying to keep his voice calm. "I won't play today."</p><p>"But we have a deal," the Monster says. Then, confusion getting replaced with anger, "We have a <em>deal</em>."</p><p>It crosses the room in two strides, grabs Quentin by the throat, puts its face right up against his. "I want to play the game," it snarls. "I want to play the game. Play it with me. <em>Now.</em>" It reaches down with its other hand, grabs Quentin's dick through his pants, hard enough to hurt, a lot.</p><p>Quentin focuses on keeping his toes on the ground, trying to drag in a shallow breath and keep himself conscious. He shakes his head, side to side.</p><p>The Monster's eyes narrow, and it teleports them to-- Quentin isn't sure where, some clearing in some park, somewhere. The sun is setting, and he can hear crickets chirping, a car horn off far in the distance.</p><p>"We have a deal," the Monster repeats, its voice edging out of hot anger and into cool cruelty, terrifying Quentin. It hasn't sounded like this in a long time. "When I want to kill something, we play the game. We play whenever I want, however many times I want, in any way I want. Or I find a person and I rip them to shreds. Is that what you want?"</p><p>It eases up its grip on Quentin's throat, just a little, and he sucks in as much air as he can. "I'm not playing today," he insists, hoarse. "What you do with that information is up to you."</p><p>"This choice is very disappointing, Quentin," the Monster says, almost managing to sound sad. Then it lets him go, turns on its heel, makes a gesture--</p><p>A figure comes flying through the air, yelling as it goes, and slams against a tree near them with a sickening crunch. Quentin staggers back, trips over a tree root, sits down hard. It's a man, wearing jogging shorts and a sleeveless shirt, wireless earbuds hanging from one ear. His shoulder sits at a strange angle, and blood is seeping across the front of his shirt around where his collarbone should be.</p><p>"Hello, friend," the Monster says to the man, who isn't yelling at the moment, face ghost-white as he gasps for air. "This is Quentin's fault."</p><p>Quentin manages to close his eyes before it finishes its gesture, but nothing can block out the <em>sound</em>, the screams combined with squelching wet noise. A splash of something hot hits his face, and the smell of blood fills the air.</p><p>After a minute, there's a strange silence. It seems like even the crickets have stopped. The only sound is the Monster's harsh breathing.</p><p>"That felt good," it says in a deep, deep growl, and Quentin makes himself look up.</p><p>The man is... not there anymore, mostly. Maybe some scraps. The tree trunk, the ground, the Monster, are all drenched in blood. It drips from branches, pools in crevices in the dirt. Quentin looks down at himself. A spray of dark red stains his t-shirt, and there's a piece of something dark and steaming stuck in his hair, dripping onto his forehead. Quentin yelps and wipes frantically at his face.</p><p>The Monster turns, casually. "What," it says, "Is that not what you were expecting?"</p><p>It walks towards Quentin, step after deliberate step. Its eyes are glittering black in its bloodstained face. It puts one foot on either side of Quentin's body, squats down until they're almost eye level.</p><p>Fast as lightning, it grabs his throat with one bloodstained hand, then smears the other one across his face and down his cheek, painting him with blood.</p><p>"This is what happens," it says, "When you don't. Play. Our. <em>Game.</em>" It shoves two fingers into Quentin's mouth, and he gags on the taste and the intrusion.</p><p>Quentin thought he was empty before, but he had no idea. No idea. He still hears the scream echoing in his head. He can't even bring himself to hope that his friends are here somewhere, that this was all for something. This is his fault. This is <em>his fault</em>.</p><p>"I have a new idea for a game," says the Monster's voice, sounding like it's coming from very far away. Quentin blinks, and a wave of terror sweeps over him at the look on the Monster's face.</p><p>"It's called, I kill someone," the Monster continues, matter-of-factly. "And then we play Our Game anyway." It tightens its grip on Quentin's throat, shoving him down until the back of his head hits the dirt, hard. Its fingers come out of Quentin's mouth to grab the front of his jeans, rip them open so hard the button pings off into the night somewhere.</p><p>"No," Quentin chokes out. "That's not--"</p><p>"Not our deal?" the Monster snarls, anger bubbling up to the surface. "Our deal is done. You broke it. This is my deal." It fists a hand in the front of Quentin's shirt and pulls, not even with apparent effort, tearing the fabric and leaving friction burns on the back of Quentin's neck, his shoulders. It runs bloody hands down Quentin's bare chest, leaving parallel streaks of red on his skin. </p><p>"I know what you like," it says. "I can do anything to you. <em>Anything.</em> And you will <em>beg</em> me to keep going." It grabs Quentin's cock for emphasis, which is already hardening despite his horror, so used to him being held down and hurt by now that it's automatic. </p><p>The Monster reaches up to Quentin's hair with its other hand, grabs whatever piece of the jogger is still oozing blood down his face, and crushes it in its hand. It waves its fingers, and Quentin's jeans are gone, wisps of cotton on the breeze. Quentin is frozen in place, not a single muscle in his body working. He can't even close his eyes.</p><p>"I own you, Quentin," the Monster says, its deadly calm returning. It opens its own pants, takes out its cock, and smears the bloody remains of whatever along its length. Then it moves fast, so fast, shoving Quentin's knees back to his shoulders, and leans all its weight on him, crushing the air out of him, lining its cock up. "We're going to play so many new ways, now. This game is going to be <em>fun</em>."</p><p>
  <em>light</em>
</p><p>
  <em>blinding light</em>
</p><p>Quentin screws his eyes shut, finally, everything glowing red and white behind his eyelids. The Monster is so heavy on top of him, and he's shaking with the strain of holding its weight in this position, trying to relax so this won't hurt as badly as he knows it's probably going to.</p><p>But the pain doesn't come. And it doesn't come. And the Monster's limp weight presses him down. And then there are footsteps, somewhere behind him, several pairs of them coming up fast.</p><p>"Quentin!"</p><p>It's Julia's voice, far away, but not that far away. Quentin opens his eyes to nothing but spots, tries to twist away, roll over, can't let her see--</p><p>The body weighing him down stirs, and groans, and a voice, so terrifyingly familiar but with just the slightest different note in it, says, "Quentin?"</p><p>Quentin blinks, and blinks again, and takes a huge breath in as the weight pressing on him disappears, suddenly, and he can put his legs down and curl up on his side. The Monster scrambles backwards away from him, gasping "Oh my god-- oh my <em>god</em>"--</p><p>But it's not the Monster, Quentin realizes with the strongest rush of horror mixed with relief. It's Eliot. He makes himself sit up, just as Julia and Penny and the rest of the crew come sprinting into the clearing, and sees Eliot's face, really Eliot's face. </p><p>"Did it..." he gasps, directed at Julia but unable to take his eyes off of Eliot.</p><p>"It worked," Julia confirms. She's holding something that's glowing angrily orange. "It's done."</p><p>Eliot is wide-eyed, its mouth (his mouth, <em>his</em>) hanging open. "Q," he breathes. "You didn't-- Did I--"</p><p>"I couldn't," Quentin says. "I couldn't. I needed--"</p><p>The Monster -- no, Eliot -- looks down at himself, blood-soaked shirt, pants open, cock smeared with viscera. "Was I going to," he starts, then turns away and is violently sick.</p><p>Quentin doesn't know what to do. Quentin doesn't know who he is, what he is. Everything in him wants to run screaming from the figure in front of him, the waking nightmare that those fingers and those limbs and that mouth represent. Everything in him wants to hold Eliot so tight his joints creak. Nothing in him can believe this is over.</p><p>Soft footsteps near him, and careful hands on his arms. He flinches away before he realizes Penny's trying to help him stand. "Let's get you cleaned up," he tells Quentin, handing him a hoodie. Quentin manages to wrap it around his waist before the shaking in his hands gets so bad that he can't grip. His teeth are chattering, although he doesn't feel cold. Or hot. He doesn't feel much of anything.</p><p>Margo is helping Eliot up, holding his hands tight, telling him something softly that Quentin can't hear. Eliot looks over towards Quentin, tears starting to wash away the blood in streaks. "Q," he says, his voice breaking. "Quentin." He takes a step towards Quentin, arm outstretched to touch him.</p><p>Quentin's entire body recoils, legs giving out and dumping him on the ground again, hands coming up to shield his throat. Eliot lets out an anguished noise.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Quentin says. "I didn't mean-- El, I just can't--"</p><p>"Give it time," Julia interrupts, stepping between them as Penny gets Quentin on his feet again. "Now is... not the time. Trust me," she says, looking intently at Eliot, then at Quentin, her eyes full of tears.</p><p>There's a silence, only punctuated by Eliot's soft weeping, and then Penny says, "Let's go," and they go.</p><p>--</p><p>It's been a week, and they can be in the same room together, finally. Quentin sits on the couch, legs tucked up under him, hugging a throw pillow to his stomach. Eliot is in the armchair across from him. He's gotten a haircut, and is back in his shirts and vests and ties. That helps. He's sitting up straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap. That helps, too.</p><p>"Can you tell me?" he asks finally. "Not today, but. Someday. I need-- I need to know."</p><p>"I'm not sure," Quentin says, honestly. "I think that's-- maybe like a second-tier thing. First I work on being able to touch you."</p><p>"Right, of course," Eliot says. He massages one hand with the other. "I just-- I can't believe you held on like that, Q. I don't know if I would have."</p><p>"Yeah, well, I've always been braver than you," Quentin tries to quip. Making jokes is something he's working on again, a little. </p><p>This one doesn't land. Eliot's jaw tightens, and he leans back a little more in his chair. "You don't know how true that is," he says, his voice rough.</p><p>"No, El, I didn't--" Quentin sighs, wishing he could reach across the coffee table between them without panicking. He doesn't like the way Eliot's nails are digging into the back of his other hand. "That's not true. You know how I know? You asked me to <em>kill you</em>, El." The words are hard to force out. "You tried to sacrifice yourself so your body wouldn't keep hurting me. I'm the one who couldn't stand doing it."</p><p>"Isn't that the easy out, though?" Eliot asks. "Run away to the Underworld, wash my hands of everything my body was doing? Forget, eventually?"</p><p>"There's no easy anything here." Quentin hugs the pillow tighter. "There's no good outcome. There are barely even less-bad ones. But you being here now-- that's less bad, for sure."</p><p>"You can't come within four feet of me without crying," Eliot says, then buries his face in his hands. "I'm making you comfort me again," he says, muffled. "I'm so sorry, Q, I can't-- I don't know why this keeps happening. Fuck."</p><p>"Hey," Quentin says. Eliot looks up at him, and Quentin takes a long, slow breath, focusing on his eyes. Eliot's eyes. <em>Eliot's</em> eyes. Not the Monster's eyes. They'll never be the Monster's eyes again.</p><p>"We're gonna figure it out," he says, feeling like he might, at some point, be able to believe it.</p><p>"I hope so," Eliot responds, staring back, and Quentin thinks he's trying to believe it too.</p>
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